“Wash them, too,” she urged.

He obeyed, stricken mute with lust as he swirled white foam over each milky breast and pale pink tip. He teased her nipples to peaks with the rough sponge, then ran soap along the vulnerable, hidden curve beneath each breast.

Then, casting the sponge aside, he cupped her breasts in his bare hands. His fingers slicked over her soapy skin, and he clamped his thumbs tight over her puckered nipples to anchor them. She moaned her approval as he stroked and kneaded, but when he slid his fingers down toward her sex, she stayed his hand.

Hell. He’d done something wrong. Gotten too greedy. She didn’t want him to—

“Your turn,” she said, her lips curving in a seductive smile. She reached for the sponge and soap.

His turn? Was she serious? He was about to spill in the bathwater, just from washing her. He didn’t think he could tolerate being on the receiving end of such ministrations.

But apparently she didn’t mean to ask his permission.

Puffs of scented white foam bloomed as she squeezed the sponge. She began with his arms, washing each from wrist to shoulder. The jasmine fragrance calmed his nerves. Sensations rippled and slid over his skin. God, it felt so … so good. There was no other word for it. Just pure, simple, straightforward good. Damn good. She had him so relaxed, he thought he would dissolve into the bathwater.

Until, stretching forward, she swabbed him under the arm. He flinched and bolted upright.

“I knew it. You are ticklish.”

“I suppose I am.”

Looking pleased with herself, she kept right on working, lathering his chest, neck, shoulders, legs. And he loved every moment of it, even when she teased the bottom of his foot and he convulsed with shock and laughter, and they lost half the bathwater onto the floor.

“Come here.” Grasping her waist with both hands, he pulled her to him. Her legs bent and doubled, forming a wall between his chest and hers. He wrapped his own big legs around her, planting his heels at the base of her spine. And then he kissed her, long and hard and deep. Tasting each of her lips in turn and exploring her mouth with his tongue. She tasted of wine and spice, and just faintly of soap. Both intoxicating and innocent. He went dizzy with the knowledge that tonight he needn’t hold anything back.

Grasping his shoulders, she pulled up and repositioned herself until she knelt between his legs. He kissed her again, and oh, God. Now her firm, soapy breasts pressed to his chest, slipping and rubbing against his scarred flesh.

She wriggled one hand between them, and Rhys felt her slender fingers close over his erection. Pleasure jolted through him as she gently stroked. Up, then down.

“Stop,” he said hoarsely, tearing his lips from hers. “Stop. It’s been eleven years. If you keep that up, I won’t last eleven seconds.”

“I know,” she said, pressing little kisses to his mouth and jaw. “I know. It’s all right. Let me do this for you first, and then we can take our time.” She sat back on her heels, still stroking him. “Let me touch you, Rhys. I’ve been wanting to touch you. You feel so good.”

He groaned as her fingers explored his full length, tracing each vein and ridge, skimming over the swollen, sensitive crown. Rhys dug deep down inside himself, fairly down to the beds of his toenails, searching for the willpower to grab her hand and make her stop. It was a fruitless search.

“Merry …” Damn it, he thought he’d finished with these one-sided sexual encounters, where all the enjoyment was on his end. “I want to pleasure you.”

“Oh, you will.” Her eyes danced with ripples of silver. Her fist tightened around him, and she began to pump faster. “Believe me. This is for my pleasure as much as it is for yours.”

He doubted that. As her hand sweetly massaged, he couldn’t even put words to the sensations coursing through his body. No, no words. Just hoarse sighs and ragged moans. She worked him in a steady rhythm, and he reveled in the newness of it. All the ways it felt different from when he pleasured himself. Her hand was smaller and so much softer than his own. Her grip wasn’t as tight, and her pace was slower than he would have set. Still, he fought the instinct to thrust his hips or urge her faster. Instead he closed his eyes and forced himself to be patient, to submit to her rhythm and the bliss mounting by steady, slow degrees.

Another small surrender, so torturous and yet so sweet.

“God.” He gripped the sides of the tub, and every muscle in his body went rigid with the effort of restraint. “You have to stop,” he said through gritted teeth. “You have to stop now, or I can’t …”

“Shh. Just let it happen.”

He didn’t have a choice anymore. Free will had ceased to exist. The crisis building in his loins was as inescapable as destiny itself, and twice as powerful.

With one last snarling growl, he let the climax take him. His hips bucked off the tub’s copper base, and he jerked into her tight fist, spurting jet after jet into the tepid water.

When the waves of pleasure subsided, he stared unfocused at the ceiling as he tried to catch his breath. All the while, she kept caressing and stroking him, smoothing those talented fingers over his spent body. He couldn’t believe the small miracle of it: that she not only wanted to touch him, she would keep doing so willingly, after the deed was finished.

And he felt the same about her. He wasn’t filled with self-loathing and a sudden, irresistible urge to yank on his clothes, toss a coin on the table, fling himself on a horse and ride away so hard, so fast, he just might finally outrun himself. No, he wanted to stay right here, and a team of draft horses couldn’t have dragged him away. He would touch and caress and kiss and stroke and lick and pleasure her all night long. Just as soon as some strength returned to his limbs.

“You were right,” he said moments later, still blinking up at the ceiling. “That is remarkably fine scrollwork.”

She laughed and leaned forward to kiss his cheek.

He sat up with sudden purpose. “Let’s get out of this bath.”

Beside the tub were two pitchers of clean water for rinsing. He stood up and raised one over his head, quickly dousing himself clean, then shaking like a wet dog.

“Rhys!” she squeaked, holding her hands up as a shield.

“What? You’re already wet.” He stepped out of the tub and directed her to stand in the center. Hefting the second pitcher in one hand, he told her, “Now turn your back to me, hold up your hair, and be still.”

She did as he asked, and he rinsed her slowly, allowing just a trickle of water to escape the pitcher as he moved it over her shoulders and neck. When the water cascaded down the elegant curve of her spine, she shivered and laughed. He poured water over the taut, pale globes of her backside, watching gooseflesh ripple over her skin.

“Turn around.”

Smiling, she turned to face him. He dashed water over her collarbones. Then, with great concentration, he applied a small trickle to each of her breasts in turn. Carefully aiming the stream, he poured water directly over her nipple. Between the chill of the bath and this new stimulation, the round nub puckered tighter than ever. Which was, of course, exactly his hoped-for result.

Still holding the half-empty pitcher at his side, Rhys bent his head and sucked that lovely pink nipple into his mouth. She jolted with surprise, but he slid his free arm around her waist to steady her.

Damn, but he’d been waiting to do this forever. And thanks to her selfless efforts in the bath, now he could take all the time he pleased. Alternating between her breasts, he sucked and licked those delectable buds, pressing his face close to breathe in the fresh, clean scent of her skin.

Curling her fingers around his shoulders, she released a low, breathy moan. And though he’d just experienced a devastating climax not five minutes ago, Rhys felt his loins beginning to stir again.

Reluctantly, he pulled away from her breasts. Her nipples were darker and harder than ever. They looked like a pair of tightly furled rosebuds, glistening with dew. He moved the pitcher over her belly and poured a stream of water straight over her navel. The water quickly overflowed the small depression, channeling down to her pelvis and between her legs.

She gasped and stiffened. Her fingernails bit into his shoulders.

Evidently she’d liked that.

With measured caution, he pressed the pitcher’s curved lip to the top of her mound, just above the triangle of dark curls that concealed her sex. Little by little, he tilted the pitcher forward, until a trickle of water came forth, coursing straight over her intimate flesh.

This time, she cried out.

He tilted the pitcher a bit more, increasing the flow of water. Her hips tilted and she spread her legs, until the tiny stream ran between the folds of her sex. Her throaty sounds of delight echoed off the tiles.

“Does it feel good?” he asked. He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear her say it. Over and over, not just once.

“It feels so …”—she gasped as he tilted the pitcher farther still—“I can’t even describe it.”

His chest swelled with a primitive, male sort of pride. “I’m out of water,” he said, crouching to set the pitcher aside.

“Oh.” Her whimper of disappointment was brief. “Perhaps that’s best. I’m getting cold. I think there are towels in the—”

“Not yet.”

He knelt before her, pressing his mouth to her core.

Chapter Sixteen

Meredith shrieked. And very nearly fell on her arse. It was a fortunate thing she already had her fingernails hooked into his shoulders like talons. Still, he had to clutch her waist with both hands to keep her from losing her balance completely.

Once he had her steadied, he reapplied himself to his task, caressing her most intimate flesh with his tongue. Gently … so gently, his attentions felt just like the water had. Warm, subtle, unrelenting in their tenderness.

His hands left her waist, sliding down to her sex. Using his thumbs, he carefully parted and spread her feminine folds.

“Rhys.” Her voice tweaked. “I’ve never …”

“Hush. Neither have I.” The words sent huffs of delicious warmth rushing over her skin. “So neither of us will know if I’m doing it wrong.”

He swirled his tongue over the swollen bud of nerves at the crest of her sex, and Meredith nearly lost her footing again.

“Oh,” she said between gasps, “I’m quite certain you’re doing it right.”

No more joking now. He went silent with concentration, exploring her thoroughly with his lips and tongue. Meredith moaned and sighed. She’d never felt pleasure this acute, so intense her bones threatened to melt with it. And it was so, so right that he would be the one to give her this feeling. He’d always been the one man to spark fiery sensations in her, even when she’d been barely more than a girl.

Patiently, with tender care, he worked her closer and closer to release. The muscles in her thighs began to tremble, and the copper tub seemed to undulate beneath her feet.

She cleared her throat. “I …” His tongue flickered over her, and for a moment she lost the power of speech. “Rhys, I don’t know how much longer I can stand.”

He didn’t answer, simply hooked one arm under her thigh, until her leg rested on his shoulder. Then he framed her waist tightly between his arms, supporting her weight.

In this pose, with one leg planted in the inch of remaining bathwater and the other leg thrown over her lover’s shoulder … Meredith felt a bit like a stork. She also felt very much on display. This posture revealed her most intimate places, spreading them wide to his examination and view. He pulled back for a moment, and she could feel him looking at her. Anticipation swirled in her blood, centering between her legs in a rapid, needy pulse.

After what must have been merely a moment but felt like an eternity, his open mouth covered her sex, and he circled his tongue, and everything exploded into pure, bright pleasure.